


The Day the Titanic Didn't Sink

by queenkrazykat



Series: Love and War [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Balthazar (Supernatural) Hates the Movie Titanic (1997), Castiel Being Castiel (Supernatural), Episode: s06e17 My Heart Will Go On, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Female Hunters, Helpful Dean Winchester, Helpful Sam Winchester, Light Angst, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Nephilim, Plot, Plot Twists, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Snarky Balthazar (Supernatural), Some Plot, Song: My Heart Will Go On (Céline Dion), Weird Plot Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:00:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28427424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenkrazykat/pseuds/queenkrazykat
Summary: After losing Jonathan, Emma wants nothing more than to get her hands on Eve and exact revenge. But days of sleepless nights yield no results and neither Emma nor the Winchesters are closer to locating her. Then one day, one of the most famous ships in the world ceases to exist, and Emma is the only one who remembers it.[Based on: 6x17 My Heart Will Go On]
Relationships: Balthazar (Supernatural) & Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Sam Winchester & Original Female Character(s)
Series: Love and War [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2075211
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

It was the shrill ringtone of her cellphone that woke her up. Emma pulled the blanket over her head, steeling herself to get out of bed, wondering whether she should even answer or not. On the one hand, she was in no mood to talk to anybody—and particularly not to the Winchesters. Sam had called her a couple of times to update her on their search for Eve and—though he tried to be discreet about it—to ask her how she was doing. Emma supposed that was sweet of him, but it irked her to hear people always asking how she was, as though she was a glass figure, bound to break at any moment.

On the other hand, it could be Jen calling, and Emma would have given anything to talk to her. She had told Jen about what had happened to her brother—a conversation that made Hell seem like a walk in the park—and Jen had hung up without a word. She had not picked up any of Emma’s calls since.

Throwing caution to the wind, Emma grabbed her mobile phone from the bedside table and sat up, trying to get rid of the last traces of sleep. She squinted at the bright phone screen, which showed _Sam Winchester_.

Emma looked unhappily at it for a second, and then answered the call. “Hello?”

“Hey, Emma. So, we’ve been tracking different monster incidents across the country, and it looks like Eve is trying to create as many monsters as she can for the moment.”

Emma rubbed her eyes. “Why?”

“Well, we’re not sure yet. But maybe it’s because she wants to create an army?”

“An army of monsters.” Emma glanced at the digital clock on her bedside table—in the dark room, it glowed an eerie blue, showing 18:07. She had slept the day away. “That’s going to be a pain in the ass.”

“Have you found anything useful?”

She stifled a yawn. “I’ve been researching on Eve, but I haven’t found much. As far as I can tell, she predates angels, humans and demons… she can’t be killed by anything... ”

“Alright,” Sam said, sounding somewhat disappointed. He cleared his throat and said, “We’ll keep you updated.”

“Great. Thanks.”

She hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed. The room was stuffy; Emma walked over to the large windows and brushed open the curtains. The streets of San Francisco were brightly lit and glittering, and from her view on the tenth floor, the cars looked like toys.

Emma loved the city. She had grown up here, and even though she moved a lot as a hunter, her apartment in San Francisco was home for her. It was by no means cheap, but being the sole heiress to the Barlow family fortune took care of that. It meant that she had no trouble when it came to affording the finer things in life, but that meant little when almost everyone you had ever loved was dead, or worse.

Emma remained at the window, her fingers absently brushing across the blinds, trying to recall what she had been dreaming about. Something about a famous ship… The details trickled away almost as fast as she tried to remember them; it was like trying to hold water in your cupped hands.

Since it had been nearly twelve hours since she had last eaten, she wasted no more time in taking a shower and preparing dinner. If and when she could, Emma tried to eat healthy—a habit that she had inherited from her mother—and her go-to comfort food was spinach and feta casserole.

She had just finished eating when her phone rang for a second time; this time, it was Jackie.

“He—”

“Emma!” Jackie interrupted excitedly. “So, I just finished my case—turned out to be a vengeful spirit. Abusive father, crime of passion—yada yada yada. Anyway, I’m on my way back to my apartment right now, and I think I might have something on Eve for you by tomorrow.”

“Thanks a lot, Jackie. You’re the best.”

She could almost hear Jackie smirk. “Of course I am, babe.”

Emma smiled, hearing the distant pounding of rock music. “Evan finally manage to get you off Celine Dion, then?”

“Who?” Jackie said distractedly.

“Celine Dion,” Emma repeated, picking up her plate and putting it in the dishwasher.

“Dude, _who_? What are you talking about?”

Emma stopped short. Jackie wasn’t one to play practical jokes—in fact, she despised them. Even if it _was_ a joke, it was a pretty bad one. “Celine Dion? My Heart Will Go On? Titanic?”

“Okay, _none o_ f those words make sense to me. Are you alright?”

“Jackie, this isn’t funny,” Emma said. “I’m in no mood to joke around—”

“Not a joke, babe. Are you okay?”

Emma felt a sour taste in her mouth. “I’ll call you back,” she said, and hung up.

* * *

A quick Google search confirmed that Jackie had _not_ been kidding. Celine Dion was a lounge singer in Quebec, according to her Facebook profile, and the Titanic—both the ship and the award-winning film—simply didn’t exist.

The floor seemed to sway under her feet. Was she _dreaming_? How could one of the most famous ships to ever exist… simply not exist anymore? Mouth dry, stomach lurching, she got up, knocking over a chair in the process, and began feverishly pulling out books from the shelf—books on demons, books on ghouls, books on wraiths, djinns—anything and everything she had ever hunted. As a hunter, Emma prided herself on her book collection. It was small, but it contained an impressive variety of lore.

She finally found what she was looking for in a small, grubby book called _Lara Nicholson’s Guide to Hunting._ Lara Nicholson had been a legendary hunter in her time, nearly thirty or so years ago. As far as Emma was concerned, she was her Jesus, and this book was her Bible. Everything Emma had ever hunted, she had found in the book.

_As far as lore I’ve seen goes, angels are the only creatures who can actually alter a person’s memory. I have no written proof to support this claim, but I met a teenager, a sixteen year-old male from Worcestershire, who insisted that he had been possessed by an angel and served as a human host—_

Emma skimmed the page, coming to rest on what she was actually looking for.

— _insisted that his memory had been altered, since he no longer recollected the events of the day before. Furthermore, he insisted that the entirety of the episode on Mt. Helvellyn had been wiped from his mind—_

Emma had seen enough. If she _wasn’t_ going crazy, then there was only one possible explanation as to why she remembered the Titanic and nobody else did—and it involved an angel. She dialed Sam again.

“Hello?”

“I need your help,” she said, without bothering about a greeting. “What do you know about the Titanic?”

“Titanic?” Sam repeated. “Um… I’ve never heard of it, I’m afraid. Hang on, let me ask Dean—Dean, what do you know about the Titanic?” Emma could hear Dean’s voice in the background.

“He doesn’t know either,” Sam said. “Is everything alright?”

“Well, yeah. Kind of,” Emma said. “Look—something weird is happening, and I think an angel has something to do with it.”

There was silence on the other end. Then Sam said, “Why would you think that?”

“Because I think my memory’s been altered, or something—and word is, if you have angel problems, the Winchesters are the guys to turn to.”

“Says who?”

Emma shrugged. “Everyone? Look—I know this is out of the blue, but I think I might have a serious angel problem and… I need your help.”

Sam was quiet for a second, and then Emma could hear him talking to Dean.

“Can you meet us in Chester, Pennsylvania? We're on our way there right now for a case.”


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later, Emma was in Chester, Pennsylvania. She had spent the whole flight trying to find out more about the Titanic. Nobody she asked had ever heard of it. Finally, after going down the rabbit hole of family trees and ancestral records, she found something. The Titanic _was_ a ship, albeit a normal one. In 1912, it had set sail across the North Atlantic, making its maiden voyage from Southampton to New York City. As far as Emma could tell, there was nothing too special about it, apart from the fact that it was one of the largest ships built in the twentieth century.

So the Titanic _did_ exist, it just hadn’t sunk, and it wasn’t famous.

* * *

“So, what are you guys doing in Chester?” Emma said, shrugging off her coat. The interior of the motel room was uncomfortably warm.

“Working a case,” Dean replied, rummaging around in the tiny fridge and pulling out two bottles of beer, one of which he offered to Emma. Emma declined; she didn’t much like beer. Dean shrugged and threw the other bottle to Sam, who caught it expertly.

“What have you got so far?”

“Three weird deaths,” Sam said, without looking up from his laptop. “And this. Found one of these at every crime scene.” He held up a single piece of thread, gold in color. “It’s pure gold, as far as we can tell.”

Emma was intrigued. “Pure gold?” she said, walking over to the table to examine it. “That’s… weird.”

“That’s not all,” Sam added, looking up at her. “We’re seeing cases like this all over the country—about seventy-five, to be precise.”

“What kind of monster could this be?” she mused, fingering the gold thread. It was soft and it glinted gently in the yellowish motel light. The harsh sound of a ringtone broke into her thoughts.

“That’ll be Ellen,” Dean said, fishing his phone out of his pocket. “Hey, Ellen.” He listened intently for a minute or so. Sam and Emma both watched him anxiously.

“Really?” he said. He listened for another minute. “Alright, thanks a lot.” He hung up and turned to Emma. “What was the boat you were asking about?”

Emma cast a quick sideways glance at Sam. “The Titanic. But I never said it was a boat…”

Dean strode over to the tiny table, where Sam was sitting, and extracted a single piece of paper from the scattered piles. He pushed it towards her. “Turns out that all the deaths we’ve been seeing—there’s one thing that connects them.”

“What’s that?” she said.

“They all came over on the same boat—the Titanic.”

* * *

Emma quickly updated them on all that she knew about the Titanic. Dean listened intently, while Sam tapped away on his keyboard.

“Check this out,” Sam said, when Emma had finished speaking. “The ship didn’t hit an iceberg—although it was a close call—because the first mate spotted it just in time.”

“Good for him,” Dean said.

“Then why do I remember it sinking?” Emma demanded. She was starting to feel extremely jittery.

“An angel is the only one who can alter memories, right?” Dean said. “So all we have to do is ask an angel.” To Emma’s surprise, he got up from his chair and began pacing around the room, peering at the walls as if he expected somebody to be hiding in them. “Castiel?” he said loudly. “Cas?”

“What’s he doing?” Emma said to Sam. But she needn’t have bothered, because her question was answered barely a second later—there was the sound of rushing wings and a powerful breeze swept the room. A man materialized out of nowhere—it was as though the molecules in the air had bent and twisted to form his shape.

Emma’s first thought was that he looked like the owner of a cheap club in some medium-sized town. He was dressed in skinny jeans, a V-necked t-shirt, a blazer, and he topped off the ensemble with a magnificent pair of black boots with silver chains on them.

“Boys!” the man said in a lilted British accent. He inclined his head at Emma. “M’lady. What can I do for you?”

“Where’s Cas?” Dean demanded.

“Castiel is… _occupied_ , shall we say, at the moment,” the man said. “He sent me in his stead.”

“Is that an angel?” Emma said to Sam in a low voice.

“In the flesh!” the angel said, before Sam could reply. “Well—not quite. In the _aether,_ more like. _”_

“Balthazar, what’s going on with the Titanic?” Sam said.

Balthazar looked puzzled. “Titanic?” he said. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Emma stood up. “I have memories of the Titanic sinking,” she said. “I remember the movie. The song. What—what is going on?”

Balthazar’s expression changed for a fraction of a second. His face went as white as a corpse, and he seemed to be having trouble swallowing. In the next fraction of a second, it all melted away, and the easy smile was back on his face.

“What the hell is going on with the boat, Balthazar?” Dean demanded.

The angel sighed irritably. “Oh, well. Since you asked so nicely…” He spread his arms. “It was meant to sink, and I saved it.”

“What?”

“Well it was meant to bash into this iceberg thing and plunge into the briny deep with all this hoopla, and I saved it. Anything else I can answer for you?”

“Why?” said Sam.

“Why what?”

“Why did you un-sink the ship?”

“Oh, because I hated the movie.”

“What movie?” Dean said irritably.

Balthazar beamed and nodded at him. “Exactly! So—the way I see it, this is a win! No horrendous movie, and no rotten song!”

“But-but-” Emma rubbed her temples; the whole conversation was giving her a headache. “You can change history like that?”

“Of course!” the angel smiled widely again; it was rather unsettling. “There’s no rules anymore.”

Sam stood up too, looking thoroughly annoyed. “You do realize you just Butterfly-Effected history? Those people who were supposed to die but survived—they must have interacted with so many other people, changed so much crap in the last hundred years—”

Balthazar waved away Sam’s tirade. “Blah blah blah. It’s only the small details that have changed. For one, you two—” he pointed at Sam and Dean in turn, “—don’t drive an Impala. And, of course, Ellen and Jo are alive.”

“Who are Ellen and Jo?” Emma said.

“What’s an Impala?” said Dean.

The angel waved away their questions. “I think I’ve helped out enough. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” He doffed an imaginary hat and vanished with the sound of beating wings.

“Motherfucker,” Dean muttered under his breath.

Emma sat down again. Her mind was whirling, and she still hadn’t found out why she was the only one who remembered the ship, the _original_ timeline. And then… for some reason, the dream she had had a couple of days ago resurfaced. She had dreamt that a ship—no, _the_ ship, the Titanic—had been saved by the eagle-eyed first mate. The details returned with such alarming clarity that she felt woozy.

When she managed to shake it off, Sam and Dean were deep in conversation.

“—around 50,000 people.” Dean was saying. “And now they’re all dying. How the hell do we save 50,000 people?”

“We don’t even know who they are,” Sam said.

Dean scooped up his cellphone. “I’m going to call Bobby,” he said, and vanished out of the front door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Song pairing** \- [WHO ARE YOU, REALLY? // MIKKY EKKO](https://open.spotify.com/track/2zXKqJFHefEgjlg3rYW7Rx?si=CpH8jYZATpepu9wWw20giQ)

Perhaps Sam and Dean realized that Emma was thoroughly unnerved by the whole affair, because they suggested that she stay in Chester for a few more days, so they could get to the bottom of the mystery. Emma agreed, only half-listening. The other half of her brain was furiously trying to work things out.

Balthazar had admitted to saving the Titanic, so only one question remained. Had she dreamt about the Titanic before, or after, he changed the timeline? And if it was before, did that mean she was becoming psychic? Was it another manifestation of the demon blood that Azazel had given her? Then why was it showing up now, nearly five years later?

The clock ticked past eleven, twelve, one, two, but sleep didn’t come. Emma’s brain simply wouldn’t shut off, and she knew better than to try to force it to do so. Instead, she pulled out her laptop and began to research.

Five a.m. came and went, and she had no answers. Rubbing her weary eyes, she decided to step outside for a breath of fresh air.

It was surprisingly cold. Goosebumps were popping up all along her arms and legs, but still, the cool air seemed to wake her up, pulling her out of her own head. The sun was still a long way away from making an appearance, but the sky was beginning to lighten, with the black giving way to a deep blue.

As she gazed across the parking lot to the road beyond, she was struck by an idea.

* * *

Emma rushed back inside and closed her laptop. Then she stood straight in the center of the room and cleared her throat. Feeling slightly foolish, she said out loud, “Balthazar?”

Nothing. The only answer was a lone cricket chirping its heart out somewhere outside the room.

It had been a long shot, anyway. Why would an angel—

There was the sound of rushing wings. Emma’s heart skipped a beat—and there he was again—Balthazar, lounging on the armchair, as though he’d been there all along. “You humans don’t have any manners, do you? Calling me at five in the morning—”

“You’re hiding something,” Emma blurted out. She hadn’t really thought about it, but something had clicked in her mind at the sight of him. When Balthazar saw her last night, something about her had frightened him badly.

Balthazar threw his hands up in the air. “Okay, fine, you got me. I did rob the liquor store, but it was just too good an opportunity to pass up—”

“What?” Emma said, alarmed and slightly thrown by Balthazar’s rambling. “No, that’s not—I’m talking about me!”

The angel rolled his eyes. “Of course you are,” he said. “Humans _always_ are—”

“You recognized me,” Emma interrupted, determined to keep him on track. “You knew who I was, and something about me being here has you worried.”

For the first time, Balthazar looked directly at Emma. “What do you want?”

“I want you to tell me what’s going on. Why am I the only one who remembers the original timeline?”

He sighed and got to his feet. “Alright,” he said. “But on one condition.”

Emma, who was surprised that he had agreed so readily, said, “Okay.”

“Do you still have the necklace your mother gave you?”

Emma stepped back, her hand immediately flying to the necklace she always wore. It was nothing special; just a circular pendant, roughly the size of a coin, hung on a cord. She had worn it for as long as she could remember. “How do you know about my mother’s necklace?”

Balthazar didn’t reply; he strode over to the tiny fridge and yanked it open. He inspected the contents—there was nothing but the leftovers of Emma’s dinner. “Is it too much to ask for some decent Scotch around here?”

“Around here, yes. Also, that’s my burrito. Can we get back to the necklace?”

Balthazar sighed through his nose and stood up straight to face her. “The necklace isn’t your mother’s, it’s _yours_. I gave it to you.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m your father.”

Emma stared at the angel incredulously, and then laughed. “Yeah, right.”

Balthazar spread his hands. “It’s true. You know you’re adopted, right?”

Emma nodded slowly. Her adopted parents—Audrey and Emmett Stallard—had sat her down on her thirteenth birthday and explained it to her. It was one of Emma’s clearest memories.

“Well, I’m your father. Your birth mother—her name was Joanna, by the way—she died giving birth to you. The birth of a Nephilim is always fatal to the mother.”

“N-Nephilim?” The word sounded alien in Emma’s mouth.

Balthazar nodded. “Half-angel, half-human,” he said in a low voice. “Nephilim are powerful beyond words. Incidentally, it’s also why you remember the original timeline. And that’s why—” he jabbed a finger at Emma. “—their birth is forbidden by Heaven’s laws.”

“What?” Emma croaked.

“Exactly. Which brings me to my request—the necklace. Never take it off, you hear me? Wear it every second of every day—if you don’t want to get your insides barbecued, that is.”

Emma was clutching the necklace so tightly that it hurt. “What does the necklace have to do wit?”

“It’s a powerful warding spell. I made it myself. So do me a favor and wear it.” He straightened, and then strode to the door. Pausing with his hand on the doorknob, he looked back and said, “Oh, one last thing. You know that little gift Azazel gave you? Stop using it.”

And then he was gone. The door banged unnaturally loudly behind him.

Emma stood frozen for a moment, struggling to absorb everything he had told her, and then she ran to the door and wrenched it open.

But the parking lot was empty.

* * *

Balthazar was deeply worried. He knew that letting Emma live, letting her hunt, even letting her fraternize with the Winchesters—it all threatened the very order of the universe, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to kill her—not then, and not now.

“Balthazar?”

“Castiel!” Balthazar exclaimed, spinning around with a welcoming smile on his face. Castiel stood in the middle of the expensively furnished living room, looking strangely out of place in his beige trench coat and sensible-looking shoes.

“You called for me?”

“Indeed, I did.” Balthazar strode over to his friend and indicated for him to take a seat. Castiel sat down gingerly, as if afraid that the couch might explode.

Balthazar wasted no time in getting to the point. “I’ve found one.”

Castiel paled a little. “You’re certain?”

“I am.”

“Is it contained?”

“Not _it_ , Castiel. _She_. She is my daughter. And yes, she is contained. For now.”

“You realize the cage will eventually break?”

Balthazar hesitated. “I’m afraid it already has. Not much, but only enough for her to alter a few details.”

Castiel leapt to his feet. “Balthazar, we need to take care of it—”

“I already have,” Balthazar said soothingly, gripping Castiel’s arm. “She doesn’t know the truth, and the cage is sound for the moment.” He cleared his throat and added, “She is my daughter, Castiel.”

Castiel seemed to calm down a little. “I understand,” he said curtly. “But under no circumstances can the cage be allowed to weaken. You will need to renew the spell every few years.”

“And I will,” Balthazar promised. “She will never need to know. Besides, she might not even be one—she wasn’t _born_ one, anyway.”

“Regardless,” Castiel said sharply. “We cannot take the chance. You will keep her caged for the rest of her life, Balthazar. For the sake of all.”

“I understand,” Balthazar said quietly.

Castiel shot Balthazar a glare. “I sincerely hope you do. Meanwhile, I will keep an eye on her. You, on the other hand, are forbidden from having any contact with her. If the other angels find out—”

“I know, I know,” Balthazar said wearily. “But I have always deemed the risk of losing my life to be worth it.”

A small smile appeared on Castiel’s face. “Good luck, Balthazar. You will need it.” And then he was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

It was the shrill ringtone of her cellphone that woke her up. Emma pulled the blanket over her head, steeling herself to get out of bed, wondering whether she should even answer or not. On the one hand, she was in no mood to talk to anybody—and particularly not to the Winchesters.

She gasped and sat up, the blanket tumbling off her and onto the floor. She was no longer in her motel room in Chester, but back in her apartment in San Francisco. The phone continued its insistent blaring, and Emma scooped it up.

“Hey, Emma.” It was Sam.

A strong feeling of déjà vu swept through Emma, and she tightened her grip on the phone and got to her feet. The clock on her bedside table read 18:07, casting an eerie blue light in the dark room. She had slept the day away. “Hey, Sam. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to say—thanks for your help with the Titanic case.”

Emma sank back down onto the bed, slightly relieved that the whole ordeal hadn’t been a dream. Castiel—a stoic-faced angel who appeared to be the complete opposite of Balthazar, from the way he spoke to the clothes he wore—had explained that if Balthazar reversed the _un-_ sinking properly, it would be like it had never happened at all. Apparently, Balthazar had done his job well. “Oh. Right. I didn’t actually do anything, you know—”

“You helped us find Atropos and literally stop fate. I wouldn’t call that nothing.”

Emma allowed a small smile to cross her lips. “Well, if you insist on giving me undue credit—you’re welcome.”

There was a short, awkward pause. “How are you doing?” Sam said, finally.

“Oh, you know. Living and learning.” She kept her voice nonchalant and light. Maybe a little too light. “How are you? How’s Dean?”

“We’re good,” Sam said.

A sudden thought struck Emma. “Hold on,” she said into her phone, and grabbed her laptop, which as sitting on her bedside table. The power button blinked, indicating that she needed to charge it, but she ignored its angry protests and tapped away at the keyboard.

“Could I have Bobby’s number?” she said into the phone. “There’s something I need help with—this book called _Nephilima_ _Commentarius,” s_ he read off the screen. _“_ Actually, do you know if he even has it?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Sam said. His voice crackled slightly with static. “But I’ll text you his number, if you want.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Sam hung up. A second later, her phone beeped with a text message from him, containing Bobby’s phone number. Emma felt a small sense of triumph, the thrill of being on a mission again. She couldn’t stand sitting around without something to chase, something to hunt down, a mystery to solve, a puzzle to piece.

But this time, it wasn’t the mystery of someone else’s life. This was her own.


End file.
